Scrambled Eggs in My Pajamas
by Sueg5123
Summary: Will has trouble sleeping and Mac fears she might be the cause...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** : _A little riff on events in Season 1._

The harsh drone of a buzzer woke her and she stumbled to the intercom pad in the foyer of her apartment, a nagging voice in the back of her mind reminding her about not having installed the remote phone app her neighbors enthused over.

The buzzer sounded again.

 _Probably some drunk leaning against the button downstairs._

She fumbled to press the send button, glancing at the clock while she did so.

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Mac. Let me up. I've got the greatest idea for the show."

 _Will?_

Even knowing the late hours he often kept, this nocturnal visit seemed out of character. His usual late night _modus operandi_ —when he felt compelled to contact her at all—was a phone call from his terrace, music in the background.

 _It must be important._

She pressed the button to open the door below, then turned to flip on a lamp. She ran back to the bedroom and grabbed her kimono, more against the chill of the morning than an over-developed sense of modesty, and quickly ran a brush through her hair. She was going to look tousled, no getting around that, given the hour.

When a different buzz came from the front door, she hurried back and cracked it.

Will McAvoy peered back at her.

"Were you sleeping?"

"Will, it's two-twenty in the morning. What else would I be doing?" In spite of her words, though, she opened the door wide and leaned against it, resigned. "You'd better come in before we wake all the neighbors."

"Thanks." He walked through the narrow foyer into the main room, where he suddenly stopped, looked around, and seemed to take stock of the surroundings. "I've never been here before," he said.

"True enough. But I'm still waiting to find out why you're here now."

"I had an idea for the show."

"So you said. Couldn't it have waited until tomorrow—er, _later this morning_?"

But he seemed oblivious to her words, his eyes roving the room. "Nice place. Kind of small."

"Not everybody can afford a glass and chrome mausoleum in the sky." She closed the door, asking, "How did you get here? Is Lonny—?"

"I didn't want to bother him, so I just walked—"

"You walked fifteen blocks at two in the morning in the city without your bodyguard?"

"I told you, I had this idea—"

"Phones, Will," holding up her mobile. "Instantaneous communication without the messiness of actual movement." She sighed audibly, aware her frustration was lost on him at this moment. "Okay. So, what's the idea?"

"Hmm?"

"You said you had an idea for the show—it was so important it couldn't wait for morning—it was so important you had to come over now to tell me about it. What is it?"

He frowned and thought, then offered a sheepish smile. "I think I forgot." He looked around again, then moved toward the adjoining kitchen. "You got anything to eat, Mac?" he asked, a total _non sequitur_ , as he leaned into the 'fridge.

Her exasperation began to transform into puzzlement. And a little anxiety.

"Will? Will, are you feeling—?"

" _Nada_. You're still living on air and water alone, I see." He closed the 'fridge door with a heavy _whap_. "Share a pizza?"

She shook her head at the offer, still perplexed by his behavior.

"Suit yourself," he shrugged, moving towards the door.

"Wait—you're leaving?"

"Pizza," he said again, in a tone that implied no further information was needed. "Change your mind?"

She had begun to be alarmed. "Let me call Lonny so he can—"

"Nope, I've got this." He grinned and left.

oooo

Will didn't show up at work until after eleven the following morning—late by his standards, egregiously late by Mac's, and yet she avoided any remonstrance. She was genuinely concerned and didn't want to spook him by appearing intrusive or overweening. Better to handle this subtly.

And he'd never been clear about the monumental idea he'd claimed to have for the show.

Which he didn't reveal at the two o'clock rundown meeting, either. He just sat there, obstinately quiet and rubbing at his temples.

 _Probably hungover_ , she snorted to herself.

"So, for the panel, we've got Dr. Frederick Loren of Yale Law School—Leslie Hammerly from the Wall Street Journal's legal blog—Richard DeGuerin—"

"Who?" It was the first time Will had spoken.

Jim consulted his notepad then repeated, "Dick DeGuerin, the famous crim—"

"I know _who_ he is," Will managed, obviously annoyed. "I just don't know why we need to have _him_ on our show."

"Legal opinion on B block. The Amanda Knox case."

"Judge Judy wasn't available? Why not have the defense team from the O.J. Simpson case? Jesus. DeGuerin." He looked to Mac. "Why do we—"

"Will, you know quite well that in order to have a balanced panel, we have to have someone with the Defense's point of view and—"

"I'll handle it myself." He turned to Jim. "Strike DeGuerin," he said, rising.

"Will—" she attempted but he'd already stormed from the conference room.

An hour later, after disengaging from the staff, she finally cornered the elusive anchor in his office, where he sat, feet up, head back, eyes shut, with a diet soda in hand, a bottle of aspirin on the desk.

"Headache?"

He nodded, eyes still closed. "And I'd really appreciate a little quiet right now."

 _Ah ha._ That seemed to confirm her suspicion. He _had_ been wasted the night before.

"Rough night?"

"Not me." He opened an eye. "Spent it reading." Then, for added measure, "Alone."

"Okay." Unconvinced but unwilling to argue over it, she shifted topic. "So, anyway—what was your brilliant idea this morning? You never said."

He sat upright. "High profile doesn't equate professionalism or competency." He sighed. "Look, DeGuerin's a showman, and I don't want him on the show. I don't want to give him the fifteen minutes of fame or the implicit professional validation. _I'm_ the managing editor— _I_ get to make that call. We are not going to turn a legitimate legal debate into a circus. I'll leave that to Nancy Grace, thank you very much."

"I understand—but that's not what I was referring—"

"Can you—can you just leave me alone for a bit?" He winced, his fingers massaging the vertical line between his eyes. "I'd like to relax a little—perhaps catch a few winks—before the show tonight."

oooo

That show went by the numbers despite the late change to the slate of guest panelists, and the next two days were unremarkable, so Mac chalked the episode up as a one-off event that wouldn't be repeated. She forgot about it.

And, then, at 3:47am Thursday morning, the door buzzer made its unnaturally shrill noise, dragging her from the bed.

"Hey, Mac, it's me."

This time, when he loped up the stairs, she stood waiting at the door, arms folded.

"Let me guess. You remembered the earth-shaking idea that you forgot?"

"No, but I was thinking that we should do an expose of Americans for Prosperity. You know that's backed by the Koch brothers, right?"

"I do," she hurried to affirm, bringing him over the threshold so that she could close the door.

"There's a pattern here that no one else is talking about. The Koch brothers are co-opting the whole damn Republican party, first with their influence at the Supreme Court, then with the Citizens United decision, and now with—"

"Wait—wait. You _seriously_ came here at this hour of the morning to discuss the Koch brothers?"

He looked all around, then seemed to deflate a bit. "You're trying to say—this is a bad time? You—have company?"

"I'm not—and I don't—haven't in a –" She took a calming breath. "It's just that I'm— _concerned_ —about you taking these early morning walks—it may not be safe—"

"No one's gonna mess with me. I have the confidence of a tall man and—"

"Charlie and someone at Blue North thought there was enough of a threat that they assigned you a bodyguard."

"Ask a barber if you need a haircut and what's he gonna tell you?" he shrugged, taking a chair and punching at a pillow. "Ask a security guy if you need security, and whaddya think _he's_ gonna say?"

"But Charlie was worried—I mean, those threats on Neal's—"

"Charlie gets spooked too easily by Neal's little imaginary bogeymen."

She sat down across from him. "Are you okay, Will? I mean, this is the second time this week you've—"

He made a dismissive gesture of annoyance. "I'm fine. Had a little trouble sleeping but I think that's just—" he pointed to his head, "so many thoughts for the show. We're clicking on all cylinders, Mac, and I want to keep the momentum going."

"How _much_ trouble sleeping?"

"I go to bed around midnight, the usual time. Just haven't been able to—you know, fall asleep."

"Is this the first time that's happened?" His expression answered that. "The second time? Will, how long has this been going on?"

"A couple of weeks? I was a little worried at first, but I've been so keyed up about the direction we're taking the show—"

"You need to get your rest, Will. It'll show here—" she pointed to his face, "if you don't." A yawn overtook her. "And I need to get my rest, too—so unless there's something time sensitive in your head full of ideas about the Koch brothers—"

oooo

After hours of early morning contemplation, over many cups of coffee, MacKenzie finally decided against asking Charlie Skinner's help or advice. Any such action was too fraught with workplace implications. Not to mention exceedingly high potential for Will's resentment.

Ditto, really, for consulting anyone else with whom she and Will worked—so, Jim and Sloan and Don were similarly out of the equation.

That only left—

"Is this Lonny Church—"

"Who is this?"

"MacKenzie McHale. At ACN. We've met. I work with—"

"The asshole." He coughed theatrically.

"I work with Will McAvoy," she said, in measured tones, trying to make the point that _she_ did not consider Will to be an asshole. "What I wanted to talk to you about is—well, he's been—uh, leaving his apartment late at night."

"He's not supposed to do that. Security protocols. When he's in, he's in— _unless_ he calls me."

"Did he call you last night?"

"No." A grudging admission.

"He knocked at my door this morning at 3:30. He'd walked there."

"Where do you live?"

"Mid-town. Forty-first and Seventh."

"Sweet Jesus. That must be one bright horizon at night."

"It is," she acknowledged, as an aside, "but, getting back to Will—this wasn't the first time."

"So, why are you ratting him out? What do you want me to do about it? If I can't count on his cooperation, how can I—"

"Can't you—I don't know—keep a closer eye on him or something? Now that we know he's prone to taking these little excursions? There are still threats against him and when he's out alone—"

"First off, there's a little matter of confidentiality. I have to put the best interests of my client foremost. He has to be able to rely on my discretion. You're nowhere in my chain of command, so I shouldn't even discuss this with you." Protracted pause. "But if you're suggesting surveillance or some sort of monitoring to make sure he stays where I put him—well, that needs to go through channels and all of those are at least two paygrades above you and me. I can't do 24-7 by myself, and I certainly can't do it based on a call from—"

He obviously sought the correct word, before settling on the first euphemism to come to mind. "A co-worker."

"Perhaps a bit more than that," she suggested, helpfully.

"Okay, _More-Than-a-Co-Worker_ —thanks for the tip. I'll take it from here. You can just relax."

oooo

Mac's relaxation was short-lived, undermined by the lead-up to Friday night's broadcast, which was far more chaotic than usual. Jim's gaggle of young associate producers had been remarkably unfocused at the rundown meeting and Mac found herself intervening to give specific directions. Then, perhaps inspired by the entire crew of _Right Now_ , which had summarily taken a week's hiatus, Herb and Jake had scheduled their own time off, forcing Mac to scramble to find union technicians to staff Control on short notice. Every package seemed too long and cutting them all seemed to require Mac's involvement or okay.

So, by 9:03pm, when the last show of the week was in the can, Mac gratefully slipped off the headset, gathered her folders, and walked to the bullpen, intending to wish everyone a restful weekend.

A young brunette waited awkwardly at the far cluster of desks, checking her phone.

"Hannah Starr. Waiting for Will," Gary mouthed to Mac, replete with a meaningful nod and raised eyebrows.

 _Of course_. A little Friday night revelry to celebrate the end of the week and put all that insomnia to good use.

Chagrinned, Mac nonetheless tried to put it out of her mind as she gave post-production notes to Jim and Kendra.

Will was entitled to a life, certainly. He was free to date. Just because she opted to live a cloistered life and subordinate her personal life to the professional one—well, Will could do as he pleased.

 _And it evidently pleased him to date women half his age._

The conclusion seemed logical and superficially convincing, so she tried to be convinced.

Until the entry buzzer of her apartment sounded at zero-dark-thirty.

She made no response, just punched the button and waited, rehearsing her indignation. But when he stood in the doorway, a paper sack in one hand and his hair damp and the shoulders of his jacket wet from an early morning spring rain, her anger evaporated. There might be actual cause for concern.

Unwilling to give away all her irritation, she tossed a towel at him and allowed, "If this is going to be a regular thing, perhaps I should just give you a key. At least, I'll get some sleep that way."

Without waiting for him to finish blotting the water from his face and respond, she turned to the kitchen. "Coffee or tea?"

"Haven't you anything stronger?" He dropped the towel on a chair and followed behind her.

"I don't think you need anything stronger."

"I'm stone cold sober," he volunteered.

She scrutinized him. "You are." It was impossible to conceal the surprise in her voice. Then, turning to fill the coffee maker with water and grounds, she asked, as nonchalantly as she could muster, "What brings you to my neighborhood tonight? Another earth-shaking idea?"

He held up the paper sack. "Brought you doughnuts."

"Doughnuts," she repeated, waiting for a punchline. When one wasn't forthcoming, she added, "That isn't a very good explanation, you know."

"But they're _good_ doughnuts, Mac. Fresh."

Was he putting her on? She studied him for some hint of a joke.

Placing two mugs on the table, she took a chair. "I thought you had a date last night."

"A date—"

"Or perhaps you call it something else?"

"Hannah?"

"Uh huh."

"She's really smart. Not as smart as you, though."

"Be that as it may—"

"She's twenty-six."

"That makes me feel better," she said sourly, rising to get the coffee. "In any event, I thought your dates customarily lasted the full night." That was tossed off with a insouciance that masked what she really felt. She really wanted him to deny it. Convincingly.

"C'mon, Mac." He tore open the paper bag to expose two pastries. "Chocolate, with sprinkles."

That had always been a favorite.

She weakened and he noticed, nudging the bag nearer. "Have one."

She succumbed, pulling off a long strip of the dough. "Mmm." She used a thumb to catch the fallen sprinkles and bring them to her mouth as well. "It's just that—well—I don't understand what this is all about, Will. I mean—this is the third time this week that you've—"

"Just getting caught up. No harm in that, is there?"

He looked so incredibly pleased as he chewed, that she couldn't help but wonder if doughnuts might boost dopamine levels.

"I mean, when we're at work, all we ever get to talk about is—"

"Work?"

"Yeah, exactly." No evidence he caught the ironic tone in her voice. "And I thought, well, I have some time now—"

In spite of the chocolate-iced doughnuts with sprinkles, Mac felt obliged to be the adult in this conversation. To steer him back to responsibilities and real-world realities.

"Will, you can't just take off in the middle of the night. Threats have been made against your safety, and you have an obligation to let your security personnel do their jobs. Imagine how Charlie or Mrs. Lansing would react if—"

He was staring at her oddly. It made her self-conscious and, to break the spell, she poured two coffees and gathered spoons, creamer, and sugar.

"You take yours black now. You never used to."

"It was hard to find milk where I was, so it became easier not to have to look for it." She shrugged. "I've gotten used to it since."

Quite unexpectedly, and without any preamble, he leaned over the table and kissed her.

She pulled back. "I—" The vowel hung in her throat as she struggled with what she ought to say. Obviously, she needed to protest, but mainly she wanted to know why. "Will? What's going on?"

"Just wanted to." He looked inordinately pleased with himself.

"Aren't you—I don't understand—" her voice faded as another idea suddenly crowded into her head. "You—you and your _date du jour_ —Hannah—was there some argument last night? Is that why—"

"Nope. No argument. We get along great."

"Then, I don't understand—" she repeated, possibilities still swirling in her mind as she rushed to consider and discard each.

"It's okay. I don't love her."

There it was. A guileless admission, offered apropos of nothing.

He picked up his coffee.

" _That_ doesn't make it okay, Will. As a matter of fact—that makes it worse."

"Mac, you're over-reacting. There's no problem. She doesn't know I was coming here. She's asleep."

Now Mac lurched to her feet and backed away from the table, the obvious conclusion flashing in brilliant neon lights in her head. _Hannah was asleep in Will's apartment, in Will's bed, right now._

"You need to leave, Will."

"Aw, Mac. She was just tonight, you know, and she's never going to—"

" _Now_." Resolute, she even gestured to the door for added emphasis.

He took a final sip of coffee and stood. "Get some rest, Mac, and we'll talk about this in the morning, when you're not so—"

oooo

Unable to go back to sleep, MacKenzie was at her desk a few hours later, plowing through newsprint and caffeinated beverages, and wondering the best way to handle this.

If his behavior a few hours ago was some new element of torture from Will, she had to convince him to stop. It was inhuman to torment her in this manner, knowing (as he surely did) how she still felt about him. No one could expect her to countenance such sadism.

Also, it needed to be said that Will wasn't fairly treating Hannah, either. S _omeone_ needed to say that. Mac wasn't inclined to be the one, however.

One thing was clear: Will's nighttime visits had crossed the line from nuisance to crisis.

She was gathering her thoughts for the confrontation when Millie called on Charlie's behalf, asking if she could break away for a few minutes. The interruption was providential, since it now seemed apparent that Charlie needed to know about his roving anchorman, regardless of any potential impact to Will's pride.

Charlie waved her into his office and she saw Lonny Church's gigantic frame folded into one of the uncomfortable chrome chairs facing Charlie's desk.

"Since you instigated this little investigation, I thought it would be fitting if you were present for the dénouement."

"Instigated?" she echoed, a little defensively, since it sounded an awful lot like an indictment.

"Well, let's say—brought it to management's attention," Charlie offered with the small smile of a peacemaker. "After you said something to Lonny, he confirmed Will's been flying the coop at night. Turns out the doorman of that swanky tower keeps astonishingly complete records of the comings and goings of residents."

"Eddie—that's the night doorman—gave me a call this morning when McAvoy left," Lonny explained. "I got to your place only a few minutes before he did."

"You were parked on the curb outside my flat?"

"More like, double parked down the block—but, yeah."

"Why didn't you stop him?"

Lonny's tone turned lecturing. "I observe—I advise—I provide security. I don't interfere with my subject's activities, when it can be helped, unless there's some element of danger."

"He's under threat and yet he's walking around in the open—that sounds dangerous to me."

"As I say, I was watching." He looked to Charlie for bailing out.

Charlie obliged.

"Turns out, Will been having a reaction to some prescribed sleep medication—"

 _He'd even said as much, hadn't he? "Just haven't been able to—you know, fall asleep."_

"The need for sleep is primal," Charlie droned on. "In fact, sleep deprivation is still the easiest and most effective means of torture. Anyway, somnambulism—sleep-walking—is one of the possible side effects of the drug he's been taking."

"You're saying he's asleep when he goes out for these early morning walks? But he was perfectly lucid—"

"Look, I talked to his doctor this morning, and he told me there's two things about this sleep aid he prescribed for Will. First, it can cause a sort of dream state, where the person taking the drug is only partially awake, so he is subject to acting on impulses. Then, there's this thing called _ante-rograde_ _amnesia_ ," Charlie enunciated it carefully, "that prevents the brain from registering the events that happen in this dream state as they happen. So, Will takes these walks and doesn't remember them the next day, because his brain isn't recording them."

"Why did the doctor tell you all this?" It seemed like terribly invasive information.

"Turns out, owing to Will's unique position as flagship anchor, we're allowed to ask about medications when required for reasons of performance and safety."

Mac's thoughts had already jumped to the end, however. "So, how do we get him off the drug?"

"Done." Charlie's hands spread in a gesture of _fait accompli_. "His doctor's going to call him this morning, tell him AWM insists on a different medication for contractual reasons."

"Are we going to tell him about—you know—" Meaning, the sleep-walks, the sleep-visits—

— _Or even the sleep kiss?_

oooo

As before, Will didn't make an appearance in the newsroom until nearly noon. So, after dispatching Jim and Maggie and Gary and every other staffer with urgent to-do lists, Mac finally strode into Will's office, expectantly.

This would be a peculiar showdown. If what Charlie and Lonny had told her this morning was correct, he wasn't aware of his recent behaviors and so couldn't explain or be apologetic for them.

He raised his eyes as she positioned herself defiantly in front of his desk.

"Something bad just happen?"

She shook her head.

He leaned back. "So, it's charades, then. How many syllables?"

"Just wondering if you got any sleep last night?"

Apart from the arch overtone, she simply wanted him to level about what he remembered. Or didn't.

He paused a moment, during which she was certain he would resort to deflection or further sarcasm, and then admitted, "No—nothing restful, anyway. Talked to the doctor this morning and we're going to try a new prescription. No more daytime drowsiness or headaches. No more—dreams."

He opened a desk drawer and took out a package of cigarettes, shaking one out. "You were in my dream last night, as a matter of fact."

"Really?" She tried to keep an expression of mild curiosity. "Nightmare about work?"

"Knock off the phony self-deprecation, Mac." Pause. "I don't think it was about work."

"But you don't remember what it was?"

"Uh uh." He lit the cigarette and exhaled a long trail of smoke. "So, what's on the agenda for today?"


	2. Deja Vu All Over Again

**Déjà vu All Over Again**

When MacKenzie reached the elevator landing that evening, she was surprised to see Will waiting, too.

"I thought you had already gone."

He made a wordless shake of the head and jabbed at the elevator call button.

"Seriously. I thought I saw you leave earlier."

He shrugged, then returned to studying the screen of his smart phone.

The show had been over for an hour or more and all of the staff, except for the two of them, had decamped for families or platters of tuna-jerky. So, when the elevator car arrived, they were the only two to step aboard, Mac clutching a folio that bulged with papers and Will still engrossed in his phone.

For the first few floors of the descent, neither spoke.

"Need a ride home?"

"I'm out of the way for you. You're downtown, I'm uptown."

"East side, west side, all around the town." Maddeningly, he still hadn't looked up to engage with her. "Think of it as an environmental victory. A strike against carbon footprints and all."

That prompted a small giggle from her. "Will, really—I just live a few blocks away."

"It's raining."

"I can get a taxi at the corner—"

"Mac, my car's already here."

The elevator opened to the lobby.

"Is your silence a yes?" he nudged.

"Okay. Just doing my bit for _carbon_ _footprints_ tonight."

The big black SUV waited at the curb and Will opened the door for Mac, before following her into the back seat. His phone, which he'd slipped into a pocket for the transit between elevator and car, now came out again.

Without looking up, Will said, "You'll have to tell the man—" indicating the silent driver, "where you live."

Three early morning treks to her apartment on foot and Will didn't know the address to give his own driver?

 _Of course not._ He'd been soundly asleep during those visits. Plus, there was that _ante-rograde amnesia_ , or whatever they called it, that prevented his memory from recording the things he did under the thrall of that sleep aid.

When the car stopped in front of her building, she murmured her thanks to Will and his driver, then plunged through the curtain of rain to the door, fumbling to press the code into the electronic keypad. A shadow loomed near her and she pulled back in surprise.

"Can you hurry this up, Mac? I'm getting wet out here."

Her passcode finally made the buzzer sound, signaling an open door, and they entered in lockstep to get out of the rain.

"Okay, Will, what are you doing here? I saw the car drive off."

"I got out of the car, obviously," he said with the irritation of a man talking to an annoying child.

"But why are you here?"

"I wanted to—" Pause, followed by a long exhalation. "Can I see your apartment? It's probably nothing, but I've had some crazy dreams lately and I wanted to see if—"

"You've had dreams about _my_ flat?"

"I didn't know it was your—anyway, it was about this place. Right where I'm standing."

Perhaps the ice jam of his memory had begun to thaw. Perhaps he would recover the memories from the previous week and—

None of this sounded like a bad thing. Possibly it was a very good thing. But her hopes had been dashed with enough regularity that she found it hard to muster much optimism. So, still quite uncertain, she turned to the building's lift and took him upstairs.

"Here we are," she said, taking a few steps inside the apartment and flipping the switch to the lights. "Familiar?" She hoped her face didn't reveal the alternating emotions she was feeling, the trepidation that kept tamping down hope, the inevitability of disappointment.

He overtook her, walking through the still darkened living area. "The kitchen is through here?"

"Yes. Although kitchen might be a rather grand word for a room that sees as little actual use as that one." She hung her jacket on a hook. "Look around, help yourself. I'm going to go change—which, by the way, you are not allowed to interpret as code for anything beyond the fact that I'm at home now and I want to relax."

"Ah. Bedroom at the end of the hall." His eyes followed her. "My dream never got that far."

She fought back the urge to respond, _Neither did you_. But there was no point in raising unnecessary questions.

As she sloughed off her pencil skirt and silk blouse, exchanging them for a comfy over-washed Tshirt and yoga pants, she heard a sound from down the hall. It sounded like the door buzzer.

 _What the—?_

"I've got it, Mac," Will yelled.

Indeed?

She stepped into slippers and hurried back to the foyer, where Will was taking a paper sack from a man at the door.

"Carmine's. You're okay with Italian?"

Her exasperation wasn't feigned and her hands went to her hips in a pose of vexation. "Will. What's going on? You wait for me to leave work—don't deny it, I saw you pacing in front of the elevators. You contrive to bring you to my flat, and now you've ordered dinner. What gives?"

While she had been speaking, he removed cartons of food from the sack and placed them on the kitchen counter. He opened a cabinet, withdrew a couple of stemmed glasses and dipped his chin in an unstated question.

"The wine is in the rack under the shelf. I'm afraid I don't have a temperature-controlled wine refrigerator," she added, a tad petulantly. "So, for the third time—what's this all about, Will?"

He handed her a glass of wine and a plate and gestured to the food.

"The doctor took me off the sleeping pill last week," he said, nonchalantly. "I wasn't getting a very restful sleep and, besides, Charlie took exception to it. Turns out, my doctor has to clear my meds with the company. Some weird detail in my contract designed to protect the company from, I don't know, charges of moral turpitude or something. And because a few people have had some strange side effects with this drug, Charlie put the kibosh on it for me, too. Kinda Big Brother-ish, don't you think?"

Careful to make no incriminating response, she began to heap pasta and salad on her plate.

"Anyway, I wanted to know if you—if you might have noticed anything peculiar—out of the normal—in my behavior last week, anything that might suggest that perhaps I was—"

"Sleepwalking." She couldn't help finishing the sentence for him, but kept her eyes on her plate, so as not to give herself away. "I mean, I've heard about the side effects of some of those medications myself."

They sat across from each other and she finally met his eyes.

"So, I just wondered if—"

"You slept-walked here?" At his nod, she picked up her wine. "What did you decide? Have you been to my flat before?"

He huffed a short laugh. "It seemed eerily familiar outside, you know, at the door. And then again, in your foyer. But—"

Her eyebrows lifted in anticipation of his next words.

"No. Not the rest of it."

She wasn't sure whether to be pleased or disappointed, so she opted for non-judgmental silence and continued eating. "The food is good, Will. Thank you for—"

Suddenly, he put his fork down. "What I really wanted to ask you, Mac, is— _did we sleep together last week_?"

She coughed, first from surprise, then—since it seemed like a good way to deflect the question and change the subject—added a few extra coughs, an exaggerated swallow, and a deep gulp of wine. Then another.

He watched her intently.

"That's certainly a leap, from a sleepwalk to—I don't know, a _sleep-fuck_?"

"You didn't answer the question."

"I'm ignoring the question. An hour ago, you didn't know where I lived. You made me tell your driver the address, remember? Anyway, I suspect you were able to pursue your favorite past-times sufficiently without my involvement. You haven't exactly hidden your—"

" _Hannah_."

"Was that her name?"

"Just the current Mac-surrogate."

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing." He picked up his fork again and pushed his food around. "It's just that Hannah had a little too much to drink at dinner Friday night. Something to do with being nervous around a minor celebrity. She was out like a light as soon as she came back to my place."

"Well, it is nice to know you prefer them conscious. In any event, I don't need to hear the salacious details," Mac said, as noncommittally as she could as she took her plate to the sink. She took the opportunity to refill her wine.

"Goddam it, MacKenzie. " He slammed his fist on the table. "Lonny as much as told me I was out _somnambulating_ my way through mid-town last week, and my doctor suddenly takes me off my meds at the company's request, and—and I'm really too old to be having the fucking wet dreams I've been having about you."

That did it.

Now, she was officially without words.

Returning to the table, she put her hands down placatingly, millimeters short of his.

"Will. There's nothing between us now. Nothing in _that_ way." Inside, the admission hurt her, but she knew it to be true, intellectually, and she also knew she had to be unequivocal on this point. "I'd like to think that we can preserve the professional relationship we have, and the only way to do that is to pretend that you aren't asking—"

" _Pretend_ ," he muttered, adopting an indignant tone.

"—Asking questions that are pointless and far-fetched and, frankly, hurtful to the rapport we've cultivated for the sake of the show. Will, we've made a kind of professional peace between us. Can't that be enough?"

He pushed his plate away. "You know, in the news business we would call that a non-denial denial."

"Will—"

"No, no. I get it." He rose and reached for his jacket. "I really wouldn't want to hurt our professional peace—that _is_ the term you used, right? Thanks for setting me straight."

She began to rise, a little flustered at how this was going, but he waved her back to her seat.

"And thanks for sharing dinner, Mac. I'll see myself out." He suddenly stopped, turned, withdrew something from his pocket and placed it on the table. "Souvenir for you. Reminder of how funny this month has been."

As the door closed behind him, she saw that he had left her with an amber vial, such as the kind used for prescription medicines.


	3. I'll See You in My Dreams

**I'll See You in My Dreams**

 _Will's Ambien._

The bottle of pills lingered on Mac's kitchen counter for a month, monument to yet another impasse with Will, and she left it there as a continuing rebuke. Will had seemed to be opening the door between them—just a crack, perhaps, but a real opening, after years of having been shut. But she'd been so afraid it was another feint, and the stakes were so much higher now. If she lost the show, she lost professional viability in addition to all access to Will—and a tiny amount of guaranteed access, even if only during working hours, seemed preferable to the risk of total banishment again.

There was the caveat he had inserted in her contract, after all. That he could fire her at will, at whim, any time he liked.

But the sleeping-walking episodes were not spoken of again by Will, and détente prevailed.

In the second month, Mac began to feel less intimidated by the prescription bottle. It blended into the clutter on the counter; she used it to anchor papers or bookmark a page.

Another month later, following the comradely elation of the bin Laden broadcast, MacKenzie picked up the vial with the intention of finally throwing it away. Pesky social conscience got in the way, however, and made her research prescription medication disposal on the internet, after which she found that she'd just missed the drug take-back day at midtown hospitals.

The prudent course was simply to wait for the next one. So, she moved the vial to the bathroom medicine cabinet where it could stand sentry over a bottle of expired antibiotics and her own rarely-used sleeping aid until all three could be surrendered to the appropriate authorities.

 _Then_ —

The Global Clarity story failed to pan out, the source leaping to his death over ACN's seeming intransigence. Actual death hadn't been that close to her in a year, and it brought memories she had hoped wouldn't be resurrected.

The theme of death even insinuated its way more directly into the newsroom when threats escalated against Will.

And her acrimonious and unstable relationship with Reese Lansing, which had begun with him making content demands during a live broadcast and ended with Mac threatening to call security on the AWM scion, had boiled up again, as he commanded that the Casey Anthony trial be covered. It ran counter to everything she'd ever learned or practiced in the profession and seemed like a total capitulation to ratings and market economics.

MacKenzie's fortitude, already under prolonged assault by the foregoing travails, faltered even more deeply when Brian Brenner materialized in the workplace like some malevolent poltergeist. Precisely because Brenner had been Will's perverse choice, it appeared to be such a betrayal.

By late August, Mac was thoroughly beaten down, hardly eating, sleeping poorly.

It was therefore understandable that she might make a critical mistake with the row of orange vials at the top of her bathroom medicine cabinet.

oooo

 _Warmth_. The kind of cozy heat that was like another blanket, an extra layer of comfort and snugness.

Mac sighed with contentment and shifted in the morning sun.

But somewhere beneath the physical satisfaction, a disconcerting realization began to worm through her thoughts. MacKenzie's own bedroom was in the steel and concrete canyon of midtown Manhattan. Direct sunlight never radiated through her window.

Her eyes popped open.

 _Where_ —?

Full length ceiling to floor windows and the sun streaming in. A mattress the size of a football field.

 _Oh god._ The delight at her earlier physical comfort faded as she strained to remember where she was.

And how she'd gotten here.

Not remembering couldn't be a good thing. And finding herself in a foreign bed was alarming on so many levels.

"There's coffee. Want some?"

Wearing pajama pants but bare-chested, Will leaned against the door jam.

MacKenzie found herself incapable of language.

"Hello? Mac? I said, would you like some coffee?"

"I want—" she began, before restarting, "I want to know how I—"

"We probably need to talk," he cut her off. "Why don't you join me in the kitchen?"

Since she had at least deduced she was clad only in scanties, she couldn't very well fling back the covers in any sort of decisive action, either to comply with his suggestion or to repudiate it.

"I think I ought to leave." It was unclear whether she meant that declaration for herself or him.

"And I think we should talk," he insisted. "So that means you need to stay, for a little while. Besides, it's Saturday—day off, no commitments, nowhere to run off to, right?"

"I need a shower," she sputtered, throwing up any rationale to get away. She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth. "A toothbrush."

"There's a new toothbrush on the counter for you. And you can use my shower."

"Nothing clean to change into," she countered.

"I've got a stacked washer-dryer down the hall and your stuff can be ready by the time you finish breakfast." He opened a drawer and tossed one of his T-shirts on the bed. "Something to wear while you wait for your clothes."

Having dispatched all her excuses, he turned back toward the kitchen and called over his shoulder, "Coffee and bagels, whenever you're ready."

After availing herself of the proffered facilities, and marveling at the luxurious shower (although resolving to withhold any mention of it), she finally joined him. Her hair was damp and she carried a towel with her to augment the meager hemline of the T-shirt he'd lent her.

Ostensibly scanning the inner pages of The Times, he waited a couple of beats before folding back the paper and pushing the plate of bagels in her direction. "Help yourself."

"You're enjoying this aren't you?"

He paused again, then made an emphatic nod, his lips curved into a slight smile.

"I get the irony—"

"I'm not sure you do," he chuckled.

"Shut it." Pouring coffee, she nervously sloshed a little over the edge of the mug when she felt his appreciative gaze on her exposed legs. She tugged at the hem of the oversized T-shirt and mopped the spilled coffee. "My clothes?"

"Chasing circles in the washing machine." At her expression, he protested, "What? I've done laundry before."

"You said we needed to talk about something, Will." She kept the entrée as neutral as she could make it, given that she was pretty sure she knew the topic was them and whatever had obviously happened between them the previous evening. She didn't know if she would be called upon to apologize for some humiliating breach of conduct, or for merely having had the temerity to crash his sanctum.

"Look, Mac. I know you've been stressed and had a shitty couple of weeks—"

"Some of that being shit you authored."

The accusation sobered him right up and he folded the newspaper and put it to one side. "Yeah," he admitted, dropping his eyes.

"How did I get here?"

"Can't help you there. This isn't a Rohypnol thing, if that's where you're headed. I was minding my business, here _alone_ —" he made sure the word registered, "and the doorman buzzed around midnight and said you were in the lobby. Was I supposed to turn you away?"

"Yes. No. I guess not. I can't remember." The absence of a clear timeline visibly frustrated her. "Why would I have come here?"

Will shrugged. "Dunno. You seemed normal—a little glassy-eyed, perhaps, but I put that down to everything that's been going on at work. You haven't gotten a lot of down time or rest lately, and there's bound to be a cumulative effect. Charlie told me you were mentally and physically exhausted. In any event, you didn't seem drunk or high, and, trust me, I've seen you both ways."

"Thanks for the reminder. And when the hell was Charlie saying that about me?"

He passed over her question. "In fact, only one thing seemed a little strange last night."

She looked up, anxious for any hint he was about to reveal.

"You've never come to my place uninvited before. That seemed odd."

"Probably because I wasn't sure who or how many women I might find here with you."

" _Touché_. But I was alone when you came by last night, wasn't I?"

They sat in silence for a full minute, distracting themselves with table matters. He moved a stack of newspapers and reached for another bagel. She sipped at her coffee, trying to cultivate nonchalance despite the tumult of her thoughts.

 _Okay. So, now there was an explanation, however minimal, for_ why _she had wakened where she did this morning. What she still needed to ascertain was her purpose in having come to Will's apartment the night before, and—most important of all—what, if anything, had happened between the two of them._

"You don't remember any of this?"

She shook her head, wondering if she was giving away too much with the admission.

"You know, I've got the strangest sense of _déjà vu_ about this conversation. You haven't been hitting the prescription sleep aids, have you?"

"I don't—I mean, I remember meeting Jim and Neal at Chew's for a quick drink after the show—I wanted to go over some ideas for your blog—"

"Why doesn't anyone come to _me_ with ideas for _my_ blog?"

She ignored him. "—But I wasn't there more than fifteen minutes—and I didn't even finish my glass of wine, which was a chardonnay, because recently I've had some trouble—"

"Sleeping?"

Pause. "You don't have to finish my sentences for me."

"Ah. Two minds, perfectly in synch."

"But I went home from Hang Chew's. I'm sure of it."

Still, that was about the limit of her certitude. So the inescapable conclusion was that she had taken a sleeping pill at home, sometime later, and then _somnambulated_ her way to Will's apartment.

It was a worryingly familiar scenario.

A buzzer sounded and he jumped to his feet. "Time to put the clothes in the dryer. That is, if I can figure it out without your producing."

When he left, she consulted her phone. Perhaps there was a clue she overlooked earlier. But the call log featured only the usual names, and there had been no calls after final rundown the previous day. On Friday nights, staffers were usually anxious to go home and begin their weekends.

"Breaking news?"

"Force of habit." She turned the phone face down and tried to start again, with all the forbearance she could muster. "Will, I woke up in your apartment this morning and I don't remember how I got here. That's a problem for me. So, I'm asking you to please tell—"

"It must've been a sleeping pill," he interrupted, tearing at his bagel. "Probably the same thing I was on at first, before Charlie made the doctor change it. Not remembering is one of the side-effects."

"Okay, but why did I come here?"

He shrugged. "Some impulse? It's been—well, it been obvious to everyone that you've been fatigued and worried about work, and, you're right, some of that is at my door." _Perhaps very literally_. He swallowed before resuming. "Brenner wasn't one of my better ideas." _Understatement_. "Sorry about that."

"So I came over here to yell at you because you hired that wanker to stalk me in the newsroom—"

"Actually, I hired him to write a puff piece for the show—"

"—Which you surely know he will never do. He specializes in literary assassinations."

MacKenzie still struggled to piece it all together. A reason for her sleep-walking— _check,_ some damn sleep med. The reason for having come to Will's flat— _check_ , some remonstrance about Brian. The only question remaining was may have transpired between her and Will the night before.

Will didn't seem to be volunteering any helpful information, so she framed her next question as a comic aside.

"Well, I'm sorry for making you sleep on the couch last night."

"I slept in my bed, Mac."

 _Oh god._

This was the final humiliation. She stood, tugging fretfully again at the hem of the shirt. "I really have to go now."

"But your clothes aren't dry yet."

"Doesn't matter. That's why they call them wash-and-wear."

"Mac—c'mon, Mac." He had risen as well, his hands going to his hips in a gesture of exasperation. "I'm just having a little fun with you, that's all. You have to admit this whole situation is kind of funny."

"Hilarious." She zigged around him to the hallway, opening two successive closets before discovering the one with the stacked set.

"Mac—wait—don't—you can't—"

None of his words had an effect, and she continued pulling her still-soggy clothes from the dryer drum.

Panic set in and his voice rose a little. "Mac, come on now. Listen to me." He began to speak quickly. "You came here last night to chew me out about Brenner. About _everything_ , really, but mostly about why I brought him in. You were right, of course, you always are, and it was a real dick move on my part. And somewhere in the middle of you simply _unloading_ on me, you said you loved me, that you always had, and then I told you that I'd never stopped either, but you said you didn't believe it because—"

She froze, eyes widened, holding wet clothes.

"—Because I kept punishing you. It doesn't make it any better to know that I hated myself every time I did something shitty to you. God knows you haven't deserved the crap I've dumped on you over the last year, but I swear I've been working my way back, working my way to tell you—"

"Stop. Go back."

"I said, I've been working my way to tell you how I feel—"

"Before that."

He frowned for a moment before recovering the phrase she'd obviously meant. "I never stopped loving you, Mac."

" _That_." She searched his face. "You mean that?"

"You believe me." He made a smile of relief. After everything, this was really so easy. "Since the minute, the very first minute, I met you—there's never been anyone else."

" _Why did you wait all morning to tell me?"_

"Because I'm a fucking fool. But when you didn't remember coming over last night, and especially when you didn't remember what we talked about—"

"You told me you still loved me and I didn't remember it?" Incredulous.

"Yeah, and that really hurts my feelings."

The mock indignation with which he threw that off confirmed everything, and she crashed into him, knocking him back against the wall, her lips on his cutting off whatever nonsense he'd been saying. After a moment, his arms came up to wind around her. When they broke apart, she dropped her head to nestle against his neck, feeling the comforting rasp of his unshaven face and smelling the lingering woodsy scent of his morning shower.

"Damn Ambien," she chuffed. "We sleep together for the first time in years and I missed it."

"You didn't miss anything. We slept together, just not that way."

"Oh." His meaning settled and a new possibility occurred to her. "Wasn't I happy last night?"

 _As in, was she to blame for them not having celebrated their reunion with greater, um, gusto?_

"You were _very_ happy, but I still wasn't sure if you might be—I don't know, drunk or high—or sleep-talking. It seemed better to wait and see how things went this morning."

"So, how are things going?" She giggled, her giddiness at rediscovered love spilling over and stretched up for another kiss. "I feel the cart's been put before the horse—that I woke up in your bed without having had the night before to earn it."

He took the wet jeans from her hand and tossed them back into the dryer. "Let's see what inroads we can make while your clothes finish."


End file.
